


Demons

by oswhine



Series: Four [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autumn, M/M, One Shot, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:12:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a post-war Drarry one shot (except not really) with autumn vibes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: I've never been to Greenwich in the fall, so if it's nothing like this, I apologize, but, you know, this fic also includes a non canon wizard pairing so I think it's not that big a deal. Really an excuse to write that first paragraph that spiraled off into a long thing(?). Enjoy!

It was autumn in Greenwich. The tree tops were burning with the richest reds and oranges and yellows, the wind flickering the fires and blowing the smell of smoke and coffee and pumpkin spice through the air and under every person’s nose as they walked, leaves crunching under their feet, necks nestled in scarves that tried to rival the vivid colours of the foliage but failed. And leaves were forever floating down, begging for their own ballet, catching in people’s hair and whispering in their ears that they wanted to be a part of the new Nutcracker. It was a season full of promises. Amidst all this, Harry James Potter sat alone on a bench, accompanied, always, by his own demons. Hands shoved in his coat pockets, hunched against the wind that soothed others but bit at him, he thought of the upcoming day of Halloween. The anniversary of his parents’ death. The anniversary of when he lost everything. And it had been even worse in recent years, after he had been so close to touching them, after he’d stood before them, as their son, in a shadowed forest and faced his death because of the thought that he’d soon be with them again, as it should be. But he had lived, and, as Ginny always reminded him, saved other children from the fate he had suffered. But he hadn’t saved enough, he thought, thinking of Teddy, and the way his mother would never teach him how to properly use his Metamorphmagus powers, and how his father would never smile over him proudly as he produced his first corporeal patronus.

“But he has _you_ ,” Ginny always said. But he wasn’t enough.

“Potter?” The astonished voice broke him out of his melancholy palace. He hadn’t thought anyone would recognize him in the Muggle world, had been confident about it. It had been a place to hide. He looked up to see a familiar face, blond hair trapped under a beanie.

“Malfoy?” He said, equally as surprised, sitting up. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you marry the granddaughter of Celestina Warbeck and go off to live in luxury in the South of France?”

“Oh, keep up, Potter, you were always so slow. We divorced months ago.” Malfoy didn’t seem to care, looking up at the trees behind Harry. “And didn’t you marry that Weasley girl?” He sneered.

Honesty flowed from Harry’s lips like honey. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the fall weather, maybe seeing an old _something_ , neither an enemy nor a friend, but not just an acquaintance either. “We’re taking a break. She said she couldn’t stand sleeping with both me and my demons anymore. So now it’s just me and my demons.”

“I know what you mean,” said Malfoy, and then seemed to swallow his words before adding, “If by demons you mean girls you find in Knockturn Alley who’re the victim of bad Transfigurations spells that have caused them to grow horns.” He sat down abruptly next to Harry, and suddenly Harry remembered - how could he forget? - a moment at the end of sixth year, summer sunlight streaming through the windows of the boy’s bathroom, his hand cupping Malfoy’s sharp jaw, Malfoy’s finger tracing his lightning scar, whispering, “I’ve always wanted to do this,” and then his hand reaching up to Harry’s untidy hair, running his fingers through it, “And this.”

But they’d just been kids then, fooling around like kids did. Now they were adults, conformed to adult lives.

“Do you want to go get a coffee?” Harry asked, staring straight ahead of him.

“At a Muggle coffee shop?” Malfoy asked scornfully. “I guess you’re used to that mud, but I was raised with finer tastes.”

“Oh yes, and I’m sure you continued to quench those tastes when you were living in France. But what about now, Malfoy? Your family scorned, your inheritance gone? What now?” Harry’s words snapped at Malfoy like a dog whose tail had been trodden on.

Malfoy was quiet for a moment. “All that Muggle coffee’s made you bitter, Potter.” He finally said. “If it’s that powerful, maybe I will try some.”

Harry wouldn’t let him get away that easily. “What are you saying?”

“That yes, Potter, I would like to get a coffee. It’s fucking cold out here.” Malfoy pulled his scarf tighter around his pale neck.

“Fine.” Harry stood up quickly.

They walked side by side, the wind blowing straight at them, heads ducked to protect them from it. Someone had lost their red scarf, and it looped and twisted in the wind before snagging on a tree branch as if its movements had exhausted it.  

The warmth of the coffee shop welcomed them in, and Malfoy took off his hat and held it in his hand, ruffling his hair with the other. It was not the pure gold Harry had remembered it as, but had a more tarnished look to it. They ordered their coffees and took them to sit at a table by the window. The steam twisted in front of their faces, blurring each other’s vision. Harry felt a twinge in his gut. This was the first time he’d faced Malfoy since they’d reunited. There was something about his face, something that had grown more pronounced with time, that produced this feeling inside him. Malfoy’s features were just so _interesting_. They made him want to lean in closer and study them, the rain coloured eyes, the jutting cheekbones, the sharp nose that contrasted with the softness of his lips. Instead, he took a hurried sip of his coffee, burning his tongue. When he looked up again, it was Malfoy who was watching him, although he hastily looked out the window as if pretending his gaze had just alighted on Harry’s face for a second.

“Why are Muggles so obsessed with pumpkin spice?” Malfoy asked. Harry could sense his knee jerking up and down under the table. He sniffed. “I don’t understand it. It’s just a flavouring, and not even the best one. I mean, when you compare it to Butterbeer…” He shook his head and cupped his mug in his hands. “Muggles are so primitive.”

“I see you haven’t changed,” said Harry coolly, taking a sip of his coffee.

Malfoy eyed him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You still think Muggles are the ants under your shoe.”

“No, I’ve actually discovered some Muggle inventions that are almost up to wizard calibre. Computers, for example. The internet.”

“And how did you discover that?” Harry asked, slightly amused. “Attending lectures meant for senior citizens at Muggle libraries?”

Malfoy’s cheeks flushed. “And I see you haven’t changed either, Potter, using everything as a tool to insult me. Well, I didn’t subject myself to this muck for us to have a conversation of mockings.”

“Neither did I,” said Harry quietly, “I didn’t realise you were that sensitive, Malfoy.”

Malfoy pushed his chair back, the legs crying out as they scraped against the floor. “There you go again! Can you even say one sentence without a taunt embedded in it?”

“No, that wasn’t meant to be insulting, Malfoy, honest,” Harry said, stretching his hand out across the table and trying to placate the other man.

Malfoy eyed Harry’s hand. “Then why do I feel insulted?”

“Because you’re sensitive?” Harry suggested.

“Very funny, Potter,” Malfoy retorted, but he slid his chair back toward the table. He took a sip of his drink and gulped it down pronouncedly. “You know what would warm me up better than this? Some firewhisky. You up for it, Potter?”

“Where are we going to get firewhisky? I’m too tired to make the trip to Diagon Alley the Muggle Way. It’ll take at least an hour.”

Malfoy avoided Harry’s eyes. “I have some at my apartment.”  

Harry stared at him. “You have an apartment in Muggle London? You? Draco Malfoy?”

“It’s convenient,” Malfoy said shortly, standing up. “Well, Potter? You coming?” He looked down at Harry, his dark eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

“Well, I don’t have any other plans,” said Harry, and stood up too.

~

Malfoy’s apartment was small and dark, rusty red leaves of the tree in front of the building brushing up against his window. The walls were brick, and the furniture was minimalistic in the sense that there wasn’t much of it. It was not at all a space Harry would have associated with Malfoy and the manor with its peacock-infested garden he had known. It was the opposite of that place, humble instead of advertising its wealth for all to see. He was most surprised to see a shelf crammed with books, including a few Muggle science ones.

Malfoy tossed his jacket on the couch. “Sit down, Potter, and don’t touch anything. I’ll get the booze.” He vanished through a door, leaving Harry to sit on the couch, beside the jacket soaked with the smell of Malfoy - Wizard aftershave that really did smell like Mount Everest, and something under that, some kind of fruit - apples, maybe?

Malfoy returned with a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky and two glasses. He sat beside Harry on the couch, his legs spread apart, his hair falling in his face. Again Harry had that feeling of wanting to know Malfoy, of wanting to touch every feature of his so he knew that face in the dark.

“Here.” Malfoy handed him a glass.

The drink was a deep amber colour, and there seemed to be sparks floating in it. Harry took a cautious sip and was immediately filled with warmth and the feeling that he could do anything. Malfoy smiled at the look on Harry’s face and knocked back his glass in one gulp, setting his it back on the coffee table with a _clink_ and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Now that’s warming, isn’t it, Potter?” Harry nodded, taking another, bigger, sip.

Malfoy suddenly leaned closer to him so that Harry could see the almost white streaks in his gray eyes. “Do you want to know my guilty pleasure, Potter?” His mouth was curved into a thin, eager smile. His breath was as warm as the heat emanating from a campfire.

“Um, sure,” Harry said, really not that sure at all.

“It’s Celestina Warbeck. We listened to her all the time when I was married to Angie, and I didn’t stop listening to her music even after the divorce even though I said that was one of the reasons I wanted to split up with her.”

Harry was too startled to say anything, so he took another sip of the firewhisky as Malfoy stood up and moved over to the phonograph. He brought his finger to his lips as he put the record on and said “Shh. Don’t tell anyone. It’s my deep, dark secret.” Giving a loud, raucous laugh, he sank back onto the couch as Celestina started singing ‘A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.’ Suddenly he sat up straight again, breaking his relaxed posture. “What’s yours, Potter?”

“My - what, sorry?” Harry asked, putting down his glass. Everything had began to seem a bit fuzzy, and he was sure he’d burned his throat now as well as his tongue.

“Your deep, dark secret?” Malfoy’s face was right in front of his again, eye to eye. Harry couldn’t concentrate. Those eyes had captured him inside them.

“Uh - I - “ he stuttered, and suddenly Malfoy’s hand was on his, guiding Harry’s fingers to hug his glass.

“Drink your firewhisky,” he said in a low voice, and helped raise the glass to Harry’s lips. Harry obediently drank.

But Malfoy’s hand was still wrapped around his, and his face was still hovering in front of Harry’s tantalizingly, those eyes both daring him and wrapping him up, and he did what the firewhisky had been pushing him to do ever since he’d taken his first sip - he leaned forward and let their lips meet, tasting the firewhisky that dampened Malfoy’s lips. Then he pulled away, worried that he’d done the wrong thing, that that moment in the summer sunlight-speckled bathroom and the invitation for firewhisky in Malfoy’s apartment had meant nothing, but his lips had only left Malfoy’s for a fraction of a moment before the other man was kissing him desperately, full of need, pushing Harry down so that he was lying on the couch and Malfoy’s knees were on either side of his hips and Malfoy’s hair was brushing against his forehead.

He placed his forehead against Harry’s, and their lips were apart once more.

“I’m so glad you said ‘Well, I don’t have any other plans,” he whispered, laughter in his voice.

Harry chuckled with him. “And I’m so glad I didn’t have any other plans,” he returned, and then brought his lips back to Malfoy’s, and they were kissing again, and his demons were nowhere in sight.


End file.
